


After the Apocowasn’t

by laika952



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn Crowley/Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-08-10 10:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20133640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laika952/pseuds/laika952
Summary: Heaven and Hell haven’t gotten the war that they’ve desired for 6,000 years. The day of reckoning is nigh. An angel and a demon only want the world and each other, but what must they do to protect it.This is my well and true first attempt at a fanfic. If anybody has any advice or feedback I would love to hear it. May my contribution to the thousands of Good Omens fanfic be enjoyed... Or something. I hope this will be several chapters long at least and an interpretation of what may have happened.





	1. Directly Thereafter

Aziraphale stepped onto the bus, formerly bound for Oxford now for London, following closely behind Crowley. Once seated, they began exchanging the bottle of whiskey between hasty draughts. 

The bottle, while nothing extraordinary on its own, never seemed to empty and was alway half full. Each time it entered Aziraphale’s hands he wrung the neck of it, as he often would with his hands. He took another too swift drink and welcomed the fiery smokiness of the alcohol that burned his throat. His head swam alarmingly as well, but that didn’t stop him from taking another pull. Ironic that he sought comfort in something that burned so, when the world had nearly been wrought asunder with Satan’s hellfire and brimstone. 

He would have imbibed further, but to his surprise, the bottle was seemingly empty. Aziraphale looked almost comically down the neck of the bottle as if it were a spyglass. Whatever miracle that had been maintaining the contents of the bottle was no longer at work. Aziraphale looked to his left to see Crowley’s chin resting on his chest, occasionally bobbing with the motion of the bus. The demon’s face was smudged with smoke, grease and Heaven’s only knew what kind of grime. His normally perfect coif was drooping sadly with the day’s exertions. Aziraphale caught himself with his kerchief a fraction of an inch from the demon’s face. 

There was the faintest snore with the inhale of breath and hiss on the exhale. 

There was no stopping him. Aziraphale administered the most gentle strokes with his pristine white kerchief. It was a pretty thing, monogrammed with his initials in a tasteful egg shell white. He had acquired it in the Middle East centuries ago, on the Silk Road. Aziraphale had taken great pains to select the fabric and have it tailored just so. 

Now it performed its duties admirably, and without waking the sleeping Crowley. The angel began working away at the smudges on the left cheek and made his way around the forehead; coming full circle to the mouth. He paused, just for a moment over the lips before completing his work. When Aziraphale could finally draw his attention from the demon’s face, he noticed the absolute state of the demon’s attire.

There was a burnt edged quality to every article of clothing from the blazer, pants, and even the mesh tie. It simply wasn’t decent to let Crowley be seen in such a state. He leaned forward in his bus seat. With a flourish of his hands, Aziraphale moved over Crowley’s battered snakeskin boots up to his tattered and badly singed blazer. Everything was in perfect condition in an eye blink.

Aziraphale raised his head and found himself just inches from Crowley’s downturned face. He paused, quietly revelling in the proximity. With the softest of breaths he blew away the ash and grime from the auburn locks. A faint aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the bus. 

——————————-

The driver, puttering on his unfamiliar route that bypassed Oxford and looped back for London, hummed pleasantly to himself. Suddenly his normally less than sweet smelling workplace smelled like his old Mum’s home. He was comforted all through the rest of the drive and hardly noticed two remaining occupants disembarking outside of a tall high rise. 

———————————

Aziraphale took a moment to appreciate the view. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder as they say. And my, what a sight to behold. Aziraphale had been gazing at him for centuries and it never got old. 

He privately wondered if the Almighty appreciated her creation in the same way that he did in this moment. God loved all of her creations no matter what imperfections they might possess, but he wondered if she had any inkling as to the amount of pain that Crowley would suffer. The pain of the Fall, having friends and acquaintances ripped from him, being forever severed from his maker and finally, categorized as. Unforgivable. 

A dull pain twitched beneath Aziraphale’s ribs. There had been far too many times that he had pointed out their differences. Usually during arguments, but every now and again with a certain smugness. A cruel smugness, he now realized, and he hated that cowardly part of himself that forced him to utter such nonsense. Cowardice was the only word for it. Aziraphale feared what many angels feared most. The punishment of Falling. 

However, he not only feared his own demise, but that of his friend as well. The delineation of himself as the angel and Crowley the demon had been used too often to drive the demon away. If He’ll were to get wind of the Arrangement, it would spell curtains for the angels most cherished friend. At most, Azirpahale would receive a chastising memo or at the very worst, a probation upon miracles for a few centuries. In times passed it had been easier to simply anger or belittle Crowley to keep him away for a few hundred years or so. But somehow…. Crowley always found him when Aziraphale needed him most. 

Aziraphale pondered their 6,000 year friendship and what he possibly could have done to have earned such loyalty. The demon had driven through an inferno and lost his most valued possession. To top the cake, Crowley had stopped time itself under the thinly veiled threat that they would never speak again. This had bought them enough time so that they might instill some small bit of confidence to the Antichrist to forestall the Apocalypse. 

Small wonder that Crowley had collapsed into an exhausted slumber. Aziraphale’s initial attempt at murdering an 11-year old boy Antichrist had earned him a brand new body and the temporary return of his sword. A reward he did not deserve. If Crowley had departed for the stars who knows how things might have turned out. Would Aziraphale have had the confidence to directly defy the Archangel Gabriel himself; let alone the Lord of Hell, Beelzebub?

Our side. 

Crowley had said it again and again and Aziraphale has been unable to accept it. Until he had felt the devastating blow dealt by the Metatron. The very voice of God had pronounced that the end of all things was undeniably to be. The end of everything. And yet a small boy with the support of his friends, a witch, and a Witchfinder, Adam Young had averted all with the pronouncement that Satan was not his Father who was no longer in heaven. The boy had forged his own path. And so now must Aziraphale. Hopefully, with Crowley by his side, they too could face down Heaven and Hell together. The tangle of emotions were jarred from him harshly as they went through a pot hole. Crowley groaned and there were immediately two stabilizing hands on his shoulders. He slept on undisturbed. 

Aziraphale hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath, or how long his hands rested lightly on the infernal being’s narrow shoulders. With a quick exhale he withdrew and interlaced his fingers, once more in his lap. He wished that he wasn’t holding his own hands for a moment. 

“Last stop, London!”

There was no saving Crowley from this abrupt awakening. The call was hollered back and the air nearly vibrated with the echo through the long bus. He came awake spluttering and reaching out with both hands defensively. A staying hand of reassurance rested on him, a familiar one. Looking up over his glasses knocked askance, he received a reassuring smile and soft pat. “Buck up Hamlet, this is our stop”. Aziraphale’s eyes were jokingly atwinkle with the now aged joke. Crowley allowed himself a small snort of amusement before rising. 

His legs didn’t receive the memo apparently. Crowley attempted to lever himself up from the from the seat but his lower half completely failed him. Instead of banging his knees on the seat or floor, there were suddenly two arms beneath his own and then lifting his around his waist.

“Stopping time seems to take more of a toll than we thought, mmh?”

With some maneuvering, Aziraphale had one of Crowley’s arm slung over his shoulder and stabilized the wobbly demon. He was nearly lost for words and was only able to mumble out a brief, “Thanks Angel” before they were descending the steps into the glow of streetlights. 

Crowley’s steps were uncoordinated and the sway of his hips was not purposeful. It was as if he had had far too much to drink without sobering up halfway through. Azirpahale seemed to keep them both stable with little difficulty. There was a certain steadiness that came with keeping oneself upright at all times. It also may have been the new Antichrist refurbished body. 

Between the two of them they negotiated the locked doors, with Crowley fumbling for his code and Aziraphale popping the door open after the chime. The classy and pristine lift doors swooshed open with a flow of stagnant air. Muzak played a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, oddly enough. 

He wanted very much to stand on his own walking into the ruins of his condo, but his body simply wasn’t having it. The exertion of sustaining the body of a flaming car and stopping time was enough to even slow down a demon. “I don’t need a nanny, I can manage.” His own voice sounded coarse in his own throat, lacking it’s usual carefree cadence and falling flat. With some effort he disentangled himself from Aziraphale’s firm grasp and braced himself on the cracked door frame. Ligur hadn’t been kind upon entry. 

Trying out a few experimental steps on his own, with no small amount of assistance from the wall in remaining upright, Crowley passed into his home. He was aware of Aziraphale close at his left elbow lest he collapse again. The thought of the angel supporting him before would have been annoying, but now… Now it was comforting. 

Each step made his knees creak and his toes dragged along the black marble tile. “My dear, won’t you allow me to… To.” 

My dear…

Not dear fellow, not dear boy, just my dear. Said with such casual tenderness. Had that always been in Aziraphale’s voice? Crowley brought his unoccupied hand up to rub a clockwise circle on his temple. “Nanny Ashtoreth could use a nanny I suppossse.” A nervous but relieved titter came from behind him. Aziraphale resumed his position underneath his shoulder and eased their progress down the hall. 

With a half raised arm Crowley directed them through the halls, finally ending at a starkly decorated bedroom. It was all clean lines and dark decor. The bed was a king with red sheets and several pillows. It was immaculate, until he half collapsed and half sat on the edge of the bed.

Crowley swam in and out of the waking world. The only thing keeping him upright was Aziraphale’s solid but gentle grip on him. He briefly pondered why the angel didn’t simply miracle him to bed. Instead he was being ministered to like a child. Suddenly his boots and socks were off, and soon after his blazer. His head fell gently to the satin pillowcase and he slipped into the welcoming embrace of sleep.


	2. Me, Myself, and a Messy Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are back in town. One needs to recoup after stopping time and driving through car vaporizing heat. The other fails miserably at cleaning up, and succeeds at something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be gunning to try and update once a week. Now if life could stop lifing and calm down a little.

Aziraphale brought the covers up under the sleeping demon’s chin and smoothed out the blankets over top him. That was all he could do for now. Then he realized he had forgotten one last thing. Reaching, he took the glasses perched awkwardly on the bridge of Crowley’s nose and placed them on the nightstand. 

With an almost inaudible snap of his fingers the lights went out and he departed the room. 

From what the angel could discern from his and Crowley’s shared fastidious nature, was that the flat was an utter wreck. Furniture was slightly askew, a safe door hung slightly ajar and a horrible smell assailed his nose. A faintly smoking puddle of ooze was giving off the scent of a week’s dead corpse with a sewer main leak beneath. 

He had the very sudden human reflex of gagging and covering his mouth and nose defensively with his sleeve. There would be no way to get the smell out of his clothes. He simply knew it. 

Without a care for performing too many frivolous miracles, there was no one to reprimand him, Aziraphale snapped and the mess vanished. Along with the smell. But for the immortal life of him, the stench still clung to the inside of his nose for the next week. 

With a hum of untapped energy just waiting to be set to work, Aziraphale set about cleaning the entire flat. Snap after snap brought the living space closer to normalcy. His gaze frequently returned to the tartan thermos on Crowley’s desk. 

—————————————-

It was 2:00 am.  
Every miracle had been performed, the plants had been tended to and Aziraphale found himself standing in front of Crowley’s closed bedroom door. He had been standing there for over an hour. His hands were clutched in a bloodless grip. The prophecy was crumpled rudely between them. By now it was likely damp from sweat. 

“Choose your faces wisely.”

Ten million demons and ten million angels had been ready to descend upon the earth. To end all things. They had averted disaster by the skin of their teeth. And the two sides did not get their war.

Aziraphale was stock still with the meditative stance of one who was in deep thought. His mind overturned each word and phrasing of Agnes Nutter’s prophecy. Still the answer eluded him. Like smoke on the wind. 

“When all is fated and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire.” 

Had they not already played with fire? Satan was banished back to Hell, Nuclear Winter was avoided and the flaming sword was gone. 

In frustration he finally tossed the crumpled and burnt edged piece of paper aside and strode away with even clipped steps. 

His loafers clacked aggressively on the floor as he paced. It was an angel and demon versus the legions of the lowest depths and the highest heavens and Aziraphale had nothing but three sentences from a three centuries dead witch to defend them with. 

A small itch began on his back. Just between the shoulder blades. Through the heat of his frustration it barely registered.

———  
It was 3:00 am. 

Desperation fueled each lap of the lap of Crowley’s office. Aziraphale would reach one side and then go right back, again and again. Every instinct told him the prophecy was pertinent to their situation. It hadn’t just floated to him on the wind out of chance. What was Agnes trying to say? Were they supposed to do something with their faces physically? A disguise of some sort?

The witch could intend a metaphorical changing their faces, or literal change to their faces, as they had as Francis and Ashtoreth? If this were they case in either scenario, the next question lead them to why? Why change one’s face?

Because…… Because they had openly defied Heaven and Hell, and now there was no war. A 6000 year smolder had built up to a well banked fire, only to be doused with a bucket of water. But one bucket of water wouldn’t be enough to quench one large fire. There would be a resurgence of the flame; an Angel and Demon were the nearest source of fuel. 

The idea of it was unpalatable at best and gut wrenchingly sickening at worst. There were any number of was to dispatch an immortal and Aziraphale imagined that Hell would devise the most torturous and drawn out as possible for Crowley. 

And for Aziraphale? If there was any Falling to be done, certainly it should have happened by now. Two hardened and clear blue eyes gazed up at the ceiling and pierced the Heavens above. 

“Good Lord! What is it that you want from us?!! From ME?!” Every stab of pain and doubt in his faith Aziraphale had felt over the last 24 hours was directed skyward. He shouted without regard for Crowley sleeping just down the hall. His voice cracked on the last word and pinpricks of tears burned the corners of his eyes. 

Without warning an irresistible burn tore up his spine like wildfire. His steps halted immediately, but the inertia from his headlong pacing still carried him forward. 

Three things happened simultaneously; the first being Azirphale reached out to catch himself on the solid oak desk; the second he also placed his opposite hand to his back; and third, his pearlescent white wings burst forth. 

There was a resounding crash of a lamp smashing to the ground, a tartan thermos spinning wildly off into the granite wall and the room swathed in instant darkness, 

“Oh….Heav— sake.” He couldn’t compete it. 

An air of bemusement hung in the following silence. The sudden explosion of feathers and wing joints was a complete and utter relief. But… It had also been horrifyingly out of his control. Aziraphale rolled both shoulders independently, flexed both wings and relished in the freedom. Physical relief was an odd bedfellow to internalized anxiety. Yet here they were, making themselves perfectly at home. 

“Angel. W-What on earth?” 

Aziraphale spun neatly on his heel and simultaneously flourished with one hand. “Oh my, you’re awake - Let there be light!” 

—————————

The two stared at one another for long seconds. Crowley hadn’t needed the light to see the state of his office. His lamp and phone were knocked askew; there was the faint beeping of the dial tone. The tartan thermos was dented with a cracked lid. There was also an Angel staring at him, lacking his usual upright and assured posture. A pair of nearly iridescent wings twitched in uncertainty, taking up nearly half the room. 

Aziraphale, for his part looked appropriately taken aback by the chaos wrought by his unfurled wings. However, Crowley couldn’t help but admire each set of feathers. Even crumpled into the corners of the room they were impressively large. 

Finally his gaze fell onto a growing patch of scarlet that caught the daylight glow of the angel’s miracled light source. There were glints of glass that was flickering scarlet.

“You’ve gone and mucked up your wing properly - haven’t you?” 

Crowley was already closing the gap between them. His bare feet swished across the dark granite of the floor. Suddenly a fluffy towel manifested in one hand while the other contained a bowl of faintly steaming water. Aziraphale’s response was a confused splutter mixed with an apology as he took his left wing in his hands to examine it more closely. 

“Allow me, Angel?” 

One long fingered hand offered itself, palm upwards and hovered in front of Aziraphale. 

The white wing trembled in the angels hands, with pain or anxiety, perhaps a mixture of both. Finally Aziraphale released his grip on the injured wing. A hesitant smile tugged up the corner of his mouth.

“Yes...That would be, quite lovely of you.”

Crowley’s yellow eyes flicked over towards the heavily ornamented red chair on the other side of the desk. “Let’s get you sit down then and I’ll see to it.” 

Together they walked around the desk. Aziraphale attempted to close his wings further, with a closed his wings with a visible wince. The Angel perched himself on the edge of the chair, as if to take flight at a moments notice. 

Crowley stepped smoothly behind the chair off to Angels left side. His fingers moved deftly and gingerly over damaged feathers and tissue. The nails of his forefinger and thumb grew a few millimeters in length and formed points to better act as tweezers. 

The process was quick by Crowley’s reckoning, but he wouldn’t risk a missed shard causing any permanent damage or scarring. He extended the wing an inch or two to assure himself no glass remained embedded. 

Aziraphale exhaled sharply, an apparently long held breath at the joint’s extension. “Sorry sorry sorry. I’ll go more slowly.” Crowley whispered gently, and with regret tingeing his voice. He grimaced at his own fumble and was thankful that the angel was turned away. “All the glass is out, I’ll just clean it all up, make sure things heal proper.”

Suddenly a few fingers touched him lightly on the knee and lingered before drawing away. “Thank you, my dear.” Heat rose instantly to Crowley’s cheeks and he wondered if he more closely resembled a tomato or beet in color. Now he was doubly thankful the Angel was looking in the opposite direction. 

“Least I can do after you - tucked me in. The whole thing was only missing a glass of warm milk and a bedtime story”. The snarky return to form seemed to assuage some of Aziraphale’s anxiety.

“Y’know the nanny gig was mine first. I’ll take it right back please, and thank you.” The tension drained incrementally from Aziraphale’s shoulders, he remained quiet and contemplative. “Now that the tricky bits out of the way. I’ll have you cleaned up in two shakes of a duck's tail.” 

While it was often typical for Aziraphale to drive the topics of conversation betwixt them, this was something different. Crowley had kissed bumps and boo boos, cleaned out cuts and scrapes, and listened to tales of playground tiffs for six years. He droned on in a nonchalant and quiet way and relished every second of it. 

Finally Crowley was soaking up the last of the blood, and rearranging feathers as he went, to find something odd. A line of four covert feathers stuck out like a sore thumb against the stark white of the others. They ran just below the damaged tissue of the alula (this is located near the topmost edge of the wing towards the end) and were a tawny shade of gold with occasional black spots interspersed throughout each feather. 

“Angel… You’re feathers?”


End file.
